Freudian Implications
by licoricewolf
Summary: "It's easy to take off your clothes and have sex. People do it all the time. But opening up your soul to someone, letting them into your spirit, thoughts, fears, futures, hopes, dreams... That is being naked." - Anonymous. Jonathan Crane/Becky Albright.


"Victor… I'm worried about you..!"

"Don't worry, my dear Elizabeth, I just need you to stay away for a while… Just until I finish this experiment!"

Becky leaned into Jonathan's thin chest, closing her eyes and wincing slightly as rain pounded viciously on the windows of the old house. Fat drops of water slammed against the walls around them, hurled through the air by hellish winds, and she would not have been surprised if there was a flood occurring imminently outside. Inside, however, the heater was turned up as high as it would go, not to mention the heavy quilt they had taken refuge under. Since the weather had become too much of a nuisance for Jonathan to accomplish anything in his lab, they had retired to the television and were watching an old movie adaption of _Frankenstein._

There was yet another crack of thunder, like God had gotten a tooth knocked out in a fistfight, and the lights and television flickered. A particularly zealous gust of wind tore at the sides of the house, an angry howl rising for a moment, and the electricity went out completely.

Jonathan waited a few moments to see if it would come back on, but when nothing happened except a few more claps of thunder, he shifted away from Becky and pushed the blanket off of him. He pulled his lighter out of his back pocket and flicked it open. The yellow flame bubbled up in front of his face, making him look like a half-carved jack-o'-lantern.

"Well, I suppose movie night is over," Becky muttered with a soft sigh. She sat up and curled her knees up against her chest—she could already feel the heat receding back to its boiler. "What are we going to do now..?"

Jonathan frowned slightly, flicking his lighter on and off meditatively. "Can't use the lab," he murmured. "Can't go out, either. No good books in here."

Becky smirked slightly and reached out to give his jaw a playful pat. "Heaven forbid we actually have to talk to each other," she teased.

He shooed her hand away in amusement. "Okay, what are we going to talk about?" he said.

"I don't know." She shrugged, her smile receding slightly like waves on a beach. "If I made you a cake, what flavor would you want?"

He flicked the lighter on and off again, smirking slightly. "I'm not a fan of sweets," he told her.

"You're a dork." She reached out to give him another pat and he tried to duck out of the way, so she mussed with his hair instead. He let out an indignant cry and dropped his lighter. "If you don't want to talk, I can think of a few _other_ things we could do." She raised her eyebrows and smiled at him, repressing a giggle. Neither of them had even the slightest clue how to find their way around a bedroom, and they both knew it.

"You're a tease," he said, pretending to be offended, and even in the dim light she knew he was blushing. She snickered as he stood and stretched, his back popping in several places. "It's late. I'm going to sleep."

Becky stood and followed him to the bedroom, leaning in the doorframe and watching absently while he started to undress. He really was handsome, in his own way. He had long bony fingers that pulled his tie from around his neck with a soft rustling noise, gaunt cheeks that tightened when he yawned, transparent blue-green eyes that were now dark with weariness. His dark hair was still a little disheveled and a small piece stuck up away from the rest. Becky chuckled and went up to him, catching his arm as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Hold still for a minute," she murmured, smoothing the offending brown lock into a more manageable position.

She let her arm fall, but Jonathan had wrapped his own lanky limbs around her waist and hugged her close. She stood on tiptoe and put her arms around his neck, closing her eyes and hiding her face in his shoulder.

He sighed contentedly into her hair, tightening his grip around her slightly. There was something different about the way he held onto her, she could feel it—it was more Scarecrow than Jonathan. But it didn't bother her, not really. He wasn't split into black and white like some people were; he was just different shades of grey.

The rain decreased momentarily, and then kicked up again. She suddenly found that night had fallen without them realizing it, like the moon had snuck in when they weren't watching. She could only make out the vague notion of Jonathan's face in the darkness.

"Jonny?" she said softly. He made a small murmur in the back of his throat. She opened her eyes and slowly stepped away from him, pursing her lips with indecision. She took one of his hands hesitantly and placed it on her stomach under her shirt, sliding his fingers up uncertainly until his palm pushed against her bra. She tried not to breathe too loudly.

Jonathan stood for a moment in shock, and then he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her. It was a different kind of kiss, it was slow and determined and deep; it was the kind of kiss you felt with your whole body. It was different because there were multiple kisses, too—every so often one would fall on her jaw or neck like rain from a leaky roof.

And then he was in his boxers and his fingers were fumbling with the button on her pants. They weren't cold anymore. She slid them off and kissed him some more, and somehow they ended up on the bed. She could feel him quaking in terror on the mattress and knew she must be doing the same; her knees felt like they were made of jelly and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to sit up and cross her legs tightly, but his scrawny hips were already pressing onto hers and she could only pull herself closer.

She locked her arms around his shoulders, biting into his shirt to keep her mouth from doing anything she would regret later. He was choking like he had sprinted through the city to get to her, hot, uneven breath that carried stray vowels in her ear. He was still the Scarecrow, she could tell by the way his hands pushed into her back instead of just laying against her skin. He wanted her closer, too. But he was rough like the burlap mask he wore. He was mean and spiteful and had hurt her more times than she could remember.

But… he wasn't the Scarecrow anymore. And he wasn't Jonathan Crane; there was no way Jonathan Crane would have gotten in bed with anyone, particularly not the woman he loved. He was Jonny now, her Jonny, the one that blushed like an ink stain whenever she did anything remotely sexual, the one that thought chemicals were romantic, the one that happened when the Scarecrow didn't want to be alone. Another shade of grey, another stitch to hold together the skinny man about to fall apart in her arms because he was scared out of his wits.

And then it was done. Both of them still retained their adolescent shame, and therefore they dressed quickly, but they laid down in the rumpled bed for a long time.

Becky ran her hand through his hair one more time, smiling uncertainly at him. He curled up around her like a cat with a plaything, his fingers tracing little circles absently on her back.

"We just…" she whispered, still somewhat shocked. But she shook her head and cozied up to him more. The night was young, the power was down, and the storm outside was showing no signs of letting up in the next week or so. She could not have thought of a better way to spend her time than with her Jonny.


End file.
